Jack Nimble tripped over the gravity well; eight centuries of flight tech failed at once; Trim’s diagnostics were a maelstrom of numbers in his mind; all the data that he left up to his ship, when it worked, had become a sort of non-Fourieral scream.
Jack blamed the Glorious War Machine, of course. But here in the yawing ship, rapidly describing a rolling dropping shuddering gyre, there was nothing he could do, but fall stung by Trim’s howling data stream.